


in each other we'll find peace

by littletrenchcoatangel



Series: 31 Days of Gay [4]
Category: Jurassic World (2015)
Genre: But also, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, this is like a slowburn but you skip the slowburn stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 21:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5348729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littletrenchcoatangel/pseuds/littletrenchcoatangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Zach,” Owen whispers, and his voice is rough and raw and full of emotion you don’t know how to handle. “Who did this to you?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	in each other we'll find peace

**Author's Note:**

> written for the prompt "who did this to you?" and then sOMEHOW IT EXPLODED INTO WHATEVER THE FUCK THIS IS. good lord.
> 
> first time writing for this fandom so forgive me if it's trashy/out of character/just plain dumb
> 
> THERE ARE NO UNDERAGE SHENANIGANS. I'M NOT ABOUT THAT LIFE.

When you are five years old, your parents bring home a bundle of fabric and tell you that its name is Gray.

“That’s a stupid name,” you grumble, crossing your too small arms and frowning at the _thing_ your mother is holding.

Your mother smiles sadly, entertained by your antics but disappointed by your behaviour, and coos at ‘Gray’. This will not be the only time she ignores you in favour of your sibling.

That day, your father hits you for the first time.

It will not be the last.

 

* * *

 

When you are eight years old, you get into a fight with four students at school.

“My mom says your mom’s a _slut_ ,” one of the children says, and shoves you. Three more shout out in agreement.

None of you know what a ‘slut’ is, not yet, but the tone of voice is enough to spur you into movement, and you leap on the other boy before he can react.

The two of you go tumbling to the ground, and you punch him three times across the jaw before the other children tackle you off him.

They kick and scratch and bite you, they spit in your face and throw dirt in your eyes, and it’s only when you feel your eye swelling shut and taste blood on your tongue that the teacher pulls them off you.

Later, when they ask what happened, you say that they insulted your parents. The other children immediately throw you under the bus, proclaiming that you attacked first – they’re not wrong, but they aren’t _right_ , either.

Your teacher doesn’t care. You are sent home, suspended, and you don’t get to go back to school for three days.

When your father finds out, he yells at you until your ears ring and he grips your arm so tightly your mother makes you wear long sleeves for a week.

At dinner, he spoon feeds Gray and smiles at the mess he makes.

 

* * *

 

When you are nine years old, Aunt Claire comes to visit. She tells you she’s bringing dinosaurs back to life, and your father puts a hand on your shoulder, smiling, and says “isn’t that incredible, Zachy?”

It’s the first time he’s ever called you anything other than your full name.

Aunt Claire tucks you into bed that night, and when she spots the bruises covering your chest, she gasps, going teary-eyed, but says nothing.

Later, when you are only half asleep, you hear her and your mother whisper-yelling at each other outside your door.

“He’s just a _kid_ , Karen!”

“I know, but-”

“Is this all he’s doing?”

Your mother gasps, but says nothing. After a moment, your aunt speaks.

“You need to leave him, Karen. You need to take those boys as far away from him as you can.”

Your mother makes a sound that is so broken and open and _pained_ that you can’t help but climb out of bed and open your bedroom door.

“Mom?” you ask quietly, rubbing at your eyes. “Wha’s going on?”

Your mother turns away from you, a hand covering her mouth, and she disappears down the hall. She doesn’t say a word.

“It’s alright, Zach,” Aunt Claire tells you, and she kneels down so she can look you in the eyes. “Everything’s going to be okay, I promise.”

She sends you back to bed with a gentle hug and a kiss on the forehead, and when you wake in the morning, she’s already gone.

You don’t see her again for seven years.

 

* * *

 

Your brother grows up with an idea in his head that says your parents love each other and you are a happy family.

You go on family holidays and weekend trips and always, your father’s grip on the back of your neck is just this side of too tight.

Your mother becomes a smaller person, shrinking inside of herself until you’re no longer sure she’s the woman that held your hands and taught you how to face the world. When she speaks, your father speaks over her, and eventually she stops forming ideas of her own.

Aunt Claire calls once, in all the years you do not see her, and she tells you that your father will never hurt you again.

For three months, this is what gets you through. You hope and hope and hope, and each bruise is a stark reminder of the lie.

Eventually, you stop hoping.

 

* * *

 

When you are 14, you learn to hate.

You hate your brother for the pain he doesn’t have to go through. At nine years old, he is smarter than you could ever hope to be, and your father finds joy in parading him in front of you.

You hate your mother for the things that she lets happen. Your father breaks your arm, one day, when he pushes you down the stairs. Your mother drives you to the hospital, and she is the first to say you fell.

You hate your aunt for leaving you. She told you once that everything would be okay, and yet you stand, five years later, before your mirror, and you can see the bruises forming over your ribs.

Some part of you has always hated your father for the things he does, but your feelings become stronger, more focused, and eventually you start to hate him, not for what he does to you, but because he is so cowardly.

You find solace in music and the words of strangers.

Your headphones settle permanently around your neck and you start throwing yourself headfirst into relationships you don’t quite understand.

The girls you waste your time on start to say they love you, and the boys you meet behind closed doors say next to nothing.

Your teachers ask you questions when you stop hiding your bruises, but you do not answer them. There is no escape from the prison your family has built for themselves, and no one who has ever tried to help you has done much good, anyway. You let them ask and whisper and guess, but you give nothing to them.

When the other kids start to avoid you – rumours spread about the fights you get into – you let them.

The girls still chase you, and the boys still meet you.

By the time you are 15, you have a reputation that surpasses even your own expectations.

You learn to live outside the box your father has tried to put you in, and you start to forget what it feels like to know someone that actually wants you to stick around.

 

* * *

 

When you are 16, your mother sends you to an island that shouldn’t exist.

Everything there should be dead – _is_ dead – and if you believed in anything other than bruised skin and broken bones, you might consider it a sign.

Maybe your mother knew what was going to happen, you think, as you are pressing your back into a gift shop wall, holding on to your brother as the monster claws its way towards you.  Maybe she knew that people would die. Maybe she wanted you to be one of them.

You don’t know if you could hate her for that.

 

* * *

 

When the hunt is over and the hunter is dead, you sit with the thousands of other survivors and wait – not for rescue, like the others, but for the world to go back to ending, one day at a time.

You have already been saved, you think, and you stare across the room at Owen and Aunt Claire.

You have already been saved, and now they want to send you back to Hell.

 

* * *

 

 

When you parents arrive, the afternoon after everything, they take you back to your hotel room.

The first thing your father does is pick you up by the throat and shove you, hard, into the wall.

“How could you be so _stupid_?” he yells, and you’re not sure if he’s talking to you or your mother. A calmness so surprising has fallen over you, and you do not even feel the need to fight back. No air is getting into your lungs and you feel like your soul is being squeezed out of you, but still you do not fight. “Your brother could have _died_.”

You, then, you think, and though you cannot breathe, you sigh.

Your father’s fingers tighten around your throat, and he presses closer, so you are almost nose to nose. His breath smells like cheap cigarettes and liquor, when you manage to drag in a short breath, and you wonder why it’s taken you so long to notice how bad his habits really are. “What were you _thinking_?”

“I wasn’t,” you tell him weakly, because you know it’s what he wants to hear. “I’m sorry,” you say, after, but you are staring at your brother, curled as he is in your mother’s arms. He’s never seen you treated this way before, you know, so you’re apologising for that, too.

He is crying, and so is she, and you can feel your fathers nails digging into your skin.

Your father says nothing, only shoves you harder against the wall, just once, before letting you drop back to your feet.

“Get out of my sight,” he orders, waving you away, and he turns towards your mother and his other child.

“Fuck you,” you mutter, pulling open the door.

Your father hears you, and turns. “What did you just say?”

You look him in the eyes for the first time in your life, and you feel your heart start to race with the strength of your defiance.

“Fuck you,” you tell him, and though you are no longer afraid, you run.

 

* * *

 

You pass Claire talking to reporters, and even though she calls for you, you keep walking.

You’re not sure where you’re going, only that you want to be as far from your father as possible.

You are not worried about your mother, nor are you concerned for Gray. Your father has never touched either of them, and he has never treated your mother poorly when Gray can see.

Eventually, you find yourself standing in the middle of the shopping district.

There are shards of glass and debris everywhere, and people are still carting out bodies. You can’t take a step without getting blood on your shoes.

No one pays you any mind – you are just another victim, searching for their loved ones – so you make your way to the edge of the water, where there is nothing but yellow tape to protect you from certain death.

“I wouldn’t get too close, if I were you,” someone says, and you turn to find Owen standing not far back, hands in his pockets and a small smile on his face. “I hear that thing has a lot of teeth.”

You smile, despite yourself, and take the few steps necessary to reach him.

“How are you doing, kid?” he asks, but you don’t have an answer.

“Can we go somewhere?” you ask instead, hoping he doesn’t notice how rough your voice is, and you watch as two paramedics carry a body away from a crying woman.

Owen stares at you for a moment, studying your face, and then he nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “Come on.”

 

* * *

 

You take him with you to find the old jeep that you and your brother repaired, and he drives you to his bungalow.

“Nice place,” you tell him, and he laughs.

“It’s not much,” he says. “But it’s… it _was_ home.”

“You’re not staying?” you ask, and you follow as he walks inside.

“Here?” he asks, and his disbelief is obvious. He disappears into another room for a second, and comes back with two beers, then gestures for you to sit on the sofa. You take the side closest to the door, putting it at your back, and he doesn’t appear to question it.

Once you’re both seated, he hands you a beer and shakes his head. “They’re giving the island back to the dinosaurs,” he says, an unsurprising heat in the words. “They should have left it with them in the first place.”

You smile, turning your head down to look at the bottle in your hands. You roll it between your palms, wondering if you should even consider drinking it – there are so many things you don’t want to become, and your father is one of them.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” he says, and when you look up, there’s a hint of concern in his smile. “You’ve had a rough couple of days.”

“Yeah,” you agree, and your hand, unbidden, floats to your neck. You can feel the heat there, underneath your fingertips – it will bruise, soon, and it will stay like that for days. “No kidding.”

“Hey,” he says suddenly, and you flinch to attention. “You alright?”

You drop your hand down, curling your fingers around the neck of your bottle, and nod. “Sure,” you say, but it comes out rougher than you mean it to. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Before Owen can answer, a shrill noise interrupts him, causing you both to jump.

He pulls his phone from his pocket, checking the screen, and he sighs. “It’s your aunt,” he says, and climbs to his feet. “Hold on.”

He disappears into what you assume is the kitchen, pressing the phone to his ear. “Hey,” he says, then, “what? Slow down.”

You figure it’s your mother’s fault, chasing after you in that way she does, and you sit patiently, picking at the label on your beer, waiting for Owen to come back into the room.

When he does, he holds his phone up awkwardly, and then taps it against his other palm. “So, I’m a getaway driver, huh?”

“Yeah,” you admit, and shrug. “Sorry.”

He stares at you for a moment, and there’s something in his gaze that you don’t understand, so you turn away and look down at your hands instead.

“You gonna tell me what’s going on?” he asks, and he sits beside you, closer than before. “Or am I gonna be forced to send you back to the resort with bruises on your neck that we both know didn’t come from a dinosaur?”

You clench your teeth, feeling the muscles in your fingers tighten imperceptibly, and you wish more than anything that you were still running for your life – at least then, you didn’t have to talk.

“Kid,” he says, in that tone your teachers always use. “Is everything-?”

“No!” you shout, and before you can really think about it, you’re on your feet, beer bottle thrown across the room, and in the silence that follows the sound of it smashing, all you can hear is your own ragged breathing. Then, quietly, around the chainsaw wreaking havoc on your throat, “no.”

Owen has his hands raised, the way you saw him do with his raptors, and he gets slowly to his feet, making sure to keep as much distance between you as he can.

You can feel your throat getting impossibly tighter, and something at the back of your tongue makes it difficult to swallow. Your eyes are burning, your ears are ringing, and when you suck in a short breath through your nose, it sounds wet.

In an effort to stop the tears from falling, and to escape the way Owen is looking at you, you close your eyes. All it does is push the tears out, but at least you don’t have to see his concern anymore.

You hear him step forward again, and you jump a little when he presses gentle fingers to your neck, but you don’t move away. You know, deep down, that he will not hurt you – he spent the better part of the night protecting you, and something about him just screams _safe_.

His fingers feel cool against your skin, and when he presses against your jaw to turn your head, you let him. You can feel his breath against your cheek, can feel your own chest rising and falling as you try to suck in air, and it all, suddenly, becomes _too much._

You burst out of his grip, biting back the apology at the tip of your tongue, and race outdoors.

As soon as you’re on the grass, your feet sinking into the dirt, you take a deep, shuddering breath and lift your gaze to the clouds. There’s a gentle evening breeze blowing, and it sends shivers down your spine.

You hear Owen step out onto the porch behind you, his footsteps heavy on the wooden stairs, and he stops just behind you, not close enough to touch.

“Zach,” Owen whispers, and his voice is rough and raw and full of emotion you don’t know how to handle. “Who did this to you?”

“Does it matter?” you ask him, though you know it does. You’re both asking useless questions, and it makes you want to punch something – there’s only one suspect for this crime, and Owen isn’t stupid enough to miss that.

“It should,” he says.

When you turn to him, he isn’t smiling, but he isn’t frowning, either. His face is contorted by anger, smoothed by concern – too many emotions are making war with his features, and you’re not sure where to look, so you turn your gaze to the grass.

“Talk to me,” he says, and you wonder why he cares.

“Why?” you ask, but you don’t look up. “It never does any good.”

He chuckles, barely more than a breath of air, and you can feel him staring at you.

“You’re safe here, kid,” he says.

“Yeah,” you admit, and look up to meet his gaze. “But I’m not always gonna be here, am I?”

Owen studies you for a moment, his eyes flicking back and forth across your face while you do the same to him, and he seems to come to a decision.

He pulls his phone out, already halfway to dialling someone, and you watch him, confused, as he brings it to his ear.

“Hey,” he says, when the person on the other end answers. “Yeah, he’s still with me.” He pauses for a moment, making a face. “No – he’s gonna stay here. Says he isn’t feeling well, doesn’t think he’ll make the trip.” He stares right at you as he says this, as if daring you to argue. “Probably just a delayed reaction to everything,” he says. “Yeah, I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Alright,” he says, after another pause. “Bye.”

You stare at him for what feels like hours, trying to figure out what he’s just done, and then he smiles.

“So,” he starts, and there’s a look in his eyes you might describe as dangerous, if you didn’t already know what that looked like. “How do you feel about pizza?”

 

* * *

 

Owen feeds you half of a home-made pizza and makes you watch movies that were filmed before even he was born – to your surprise, not all of them are terrible.

He lets you take his bed, rather than the sofa, and you’re too shocked by the idea of someone being that nice to you for no reason that you sort of just go along with it.

When you wake up in the morning, your face is buried in one of his pillows and you feel like you’ve had the best night’s sleep of your entire life.

You drag yourself into the bathroom, stealing some of his mouthwash to make yourself feel a little better, and when you risk a glance at your reflection in the mirror, you’re not surprised by what you see.

Your neck is littered with purple marks, some stretching the whole way across, and underneath your jaw on either side are bruises so dark you’re certain they’ll be there for weeks. Anyone with half a brain would be able to figure out where you got them, but there’s not much you can do about it.

Strangely, you don’t remember how it felt to have your father choke you. You only remember what happened later, when Owen was running his fingers over your skin. His phantom touch makes you shiver, and you splash cold water over your face before leaving.

“Morning, sunshine,” he tells you, when you eventually make it to the kitchen. A look at the clock tells you it’s just past ten in the morning, and Owen is still wandering around in boxer shorts and a singlet. He’s busy doing something at the stove, not bothering to look at you, so you take your time to look around.

'Quaint' is the only word you can think of to describe it. All of the essentials are there – stove, sink, refrigerator – but it seems so lived in and _loved_ that you find it odd to think of it being Owen’s. When you look at him, though, at the way he moves around the room, he doesn’t look out of place.

He makes the space his own, you think, and you get a strange feeling in your stomach at the thought that he so easily belongs wherever he ends up, and there’s you, lost and wandering, not sure if you’re even meant to be alive.

You stand awkwardly in the centre of the kitchen, trying not to be in the way, and when Owen doesn’t hear you say anything, he turns to face you.

“Shit,” he says immediately, his smile dropping. He steps forward suddenly, arm raised, and you can’t help but step back.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, and his arm drops back to his side. “Those look bad,” he adds, and gestures to your neck. “Do they hurt?”

“No,” you say, and it’s not really a lie. Your voice is rougher than it had been the day before, but it’s somehow easier to speak. Mostly, all you can feel is a dull ache. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” you assure him.

He stares at you for a few seconds, deliberating, and then seems to shake himself off. “You hungry?” he asks. “I made pancakes.”

You nod, smiling, and help him set the table.

 

* * *

 

Owen drives you back to the resort at noon, and the closer you get to the main part of the park, the whiter his knuckles go, until his grip is so tight around the wheel you’re worried he might tear it off the steering column.

Your Aunt Claire is there to meet you when you arrive, the rest of your family behind her. She rushes towards you, ready to give you a hug, but she takes in the bruises on your neck and stops dead in her tracks, hand flying to her mouth as she stares at you. Owen, beside you in front of the jeep, watches her curiously.

“Oh, Zach,” she says, but her voice is muffled.

Your brother comes rushing forward after her, though he doesn’t notice when she stops, and he curls his arms around your waist. You hug him back, glad that he’s okay, and look up as your mother and father approach.

“Hey, baby,” your mother says, but she doesn’t get the chance to reach you before your father is storming forward.

To anyone else, he might look concerned. For a second, you even believe that he is. But then you spot the rage in his eyes and can’t help but take a small step back.

“Where were you?” he asks, and there’s an underlying threat in his words. “Your mother was worried sick!”

Before he can actually get to you – to do what, you don’t know – there’s suddenly a figure blocking your view and Owen is speaking.

“He was with me,” he says. “I did call.”

You and Gray poke your heads around Owen so you can see your father, and it’s easy to tell he’s sizing up the younger man.

Your father looks at you, spotting the marks he left on your neck, and something so profoundly _wrong_ settles on his face.

“What did you do to my son?” he asks, and you know he means the bruises. He shoves Owen in the chest, pushing him back a step, and repeats the question. Behind him, your mother and Aunt step closer together, nothing but fear in their eyes.

“Nothing,” Owen replies calmly. Then, with a smirk you can’t see but know is there, “he was like that when I got him.”

“Owen…” you say quietly, but it’s too late.

Your father shoves at him again, harder this time, and it’s all you can do to push Gray out of the way before he slams backwards, right into you.

“You alright, kid?” he asks you, after you’ve both recovered from being slammed into the front of the jeep.

“Yeah,” you tell him, though you can feel new bruises forming on your ribs. “You?”

Owen smiles. “I’m about to be,” he says, and before you can ask him what he means, he turns to your father and punches him square in the face, the same as he did with the man trying to use the raptors.

Your father, you note happily, goes down like a sack of potatoes.

When you look around in the silence that follows, your mother and Aunt Claire are both wearing equal expressions of shock, their hands covering their mouths, and Gray is staring, wide-eyed, between Owen and your dad.

“You ever touch your kid again,” Owen is saying, and his voice is a low growl. “I swear to God, you will wish we’d never met.”

 

* * *

 

When you are 16, after you have survived Hell itself and an island full of monsters, your mother leaves your father and gets full custody.

You move to southern California, and your Aunt moves with you.

Owen Grady follows.

 

* * *

 

When you are 19, you start your first year of college.

You don’t know what you want to major in, yet, but you’re leaning towards social work.

When you ask, your mother just cries.

Claire doesn’t say anything, but that doesn’t surprise you. She’s been restless, unsure if she even wants to stay in California, and her stress about her new relationship is taking its toll. She broke up with Owen two months after you moved, and they both seem better as just friends.

When you ask your brother, he rattles off statistics about students dropping out of classes, and you smile and ruffle his hair before you decide to go and visit Owen.

He lives a few blocks away, in a house that is simultaneously completely different and exactly the same as his bungalow on the island.

“Door’s open!” he calls, when you knock. Once you’ve let yourself in, he calls out from the kitchen.

“Hey,” you greet, and lean against the island counter.

It’s almost three in the afternoon, but Owen is still wearing the clothes he slept in, dancing to some ridiculous music while he cooks himself breakfast.

“Hey, kid,” he says, throwing a glance over his shoulder. “Pancakes?”

You roll your eyes, but when he looks at you, you nod.

Once you’ve eaten, you follow Owen into his lounge and watch for a while as he flicks through the channels. Eventually, he settles on the news, but mutes the TV and turns to you.

“You alright?” he asks, as he always does, and you roll your eyes at him again.

“Yeah,” he says. “Just trying to pick a major.”

“Go with your gut,” Owen says immediately. “That’s what I did.”

You stare at him for a moment, and he stares back at you, and after a moment you both start laughing.

“Your gut told you to drop out and join the Navy,” you remind him.

“So?” he asks. “Worked out for me, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, if you can call almost being eaten alive at your day job ‘working out’.”

Owen laughs again and you catch yourself, not for the first time, smiling as you watch him.

“Seriously, though,” he says, once he sobers up, and he meets your eyes. “You’re a smart kid. Whatever you choose, you’ll make it work.”

You huff, looking down and picking at a loose thread on your shorts.

“I mean it, Zach,” he says. “You can do whatever you put your mind to.”

You fiddle with the thread for a moment longer, and then look up at him.

“I was… thinking of doing social work,” you admit, voice low.

Owen stares at you, and it’s different to the looks your mother or your aunt give you when you say similar things. There’s no pity in his eyes, only understanding.

“Like I said,” he tells you. “You’ll make it work.”

“Thanks, Owen,” you say, later, before you go home.

“Hey,” he retorts, waving a hand as if it’s no trouble. “That’s what I’m here for, right?”

 

* * *

 

When you are 25, you graduate. Two weeks later, you are offered your first job.

To celebrate, Owen takes you out for dinner.

“Just us?” you ask him, more than a little confused as you leave your mother alone in the house. Gray is off at college, already taking the other students by storm, if you know him as well as you think you do, so it’s weird that she wouldn’t jump at the chance to join you.

“Yeah,” he says cryptically, quiet.

You drive for a while, talking about small things. You ask him how his new garage is going, jokingly tell him, not for the first time, he should consider going into dog training, and he laughs along with you as if nothing is wrong.

He pulls up in front of a restaurant you don’t recognise, and your eyes widen in surprise when you realise he’s booked a table.

You stare at him, blanching a little when a waiter pulls out your chair for you, and once you’re seated, you look at him over the top of your menu and smirk.

“Are you trying to seduce me, Mr Grady?” you joke.

You’re more than a little surprised when he looks up at you, meeting your gaze with a determination you haven’t seen since Isla Nublar, and nods. “Yes,” he says. “Is it working?”

“Yeah,” you admit, and your heart skips a beat when he smiles at you. “A little.”

 

* * *

 

When you are 27, you say ‘I love you’ for the first time.

Owen turns around, smiling, and offers you pancakes.

**Author's Note:**

> pls god forgive me for the sins i just committed
> 
> COMMENT IF YOU LIKE IT. I NEED LOVE.


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